Dawn loved sleeping in a room on her own. Pete was a snorer, bless him; she got a better night by herself. It was different for Hazel. To her the unshared bedrooms felt desolate, yet another reminder of her solitude. As soon as she shut the door she busied herself on her tablet, emailing David and Anna with news of the trip, looking up things for her and Dawn to see over the coming days. If they were staying more than one night she hand-washed her socks and pants in the basin, using the little bottle of liquid detergent she’d bought for the purpose, then putting her things to dry on the towel-rail. She was grateful when there was a television in the room, so she didn’t have to sit with the silence. Dawn was Owen’s sister, the same flesh and blood; sleeping in a twin bed alongside her gave a connection to him which made her feel less lonely. Otherwise the absence of him felt too enormous. A person missed took up so much more space than a person who was there.

It was silly, but Hazel felt apprehensive about visiting The Grange. The people who lived there weren’t even her own relatives, but something in the tone of Ian Eyres’ letter had made her feel as if she was an impoverished distant cousin, coming to ask for charity from the big house, like someone in a nineteenth-century novel. The Eyres would probably have made changes to the house; it wouldn’t be the same as it had been when Alice lived there. Well obviously. That was more than a hundred and fifty years ago. But it would be amazing, just to see the place. The people at the B&B had laughed when she said they were going to Weston-sub-Edge and told her that locals all pronounced it Weston Subidge. She wondered if that was how her ancestors would have said the name. She rolled it around in her mouth a couple of times, like a toffee.

It was a fine day and Ian Eyres suggested they walk around the garden first, before coming in for tea. He had a high forehead with just a smudge of remaining hair brushed back from it.

‘Who was it you said had lived here?’ he asked Dawn.

People tended to address their comments and questions to Dawn, rightly surmising that she was the more forthcoming of the two, although in this case Ian Eyres had not troubled to distinguish between the visitors, both of whom were short, grey-haired Australians in the sort of brightly coloured anoraks which made the noise of crumpling paper as they walked. It was only the fact that Dawn stood a little closer to him that singled her out for his query.

‘It’s not my relations actually,’ she said. ‘Hazel, you’re the expert?’